The sun hung low over Hikarigaoka High's football field, its warm rays washing over the emerald stretch of grass that shimmered under the late afternoon light. The faint smell of earth, cut grass, and chalk lines filled the air, mixing with the sound of sneakers scuffing turf and the rhythmic thump of footballs being kicked.
A light breeze swept through, carrying the voices of students still lingering near the bleachers, watching the club practice. Flags bearing the school's navy and silver emblem fluttered gently.
Haruto Kisaragi stood near the center circle, tugging at the hem of his navy training jersey. His name, Kisaragi, was printed in white across the back — a small yet proud mark of belonging. Sweat glistened along his jawline, and his brown hair clung slightly to his forehead. His gaze, sharp and analytical, scanned the field with quiet intensity.
He wasn't thinking about popularity or recognition. Every angle, every blade of grass, every bounce of the ball was data to him — part of a silent calculation that would, one day, push him beyond every rival.
---
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Masaru Okabe's voice barked across the field.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a permanent frown etched into his face. His whistle hung loosely around his neck, and his eyes, though tired, held a spark of pride for his players.
"We're doing three stages today," he said, pacing across the turf. "Drills, passing rotation, and then formation scrimmage. I want focus, not chatter. You got that?"
"YES, COACH!" the players shouted in unison, their voices echoing against the fence.
Haruto rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing. His body still ached from the morning's PE class, but his mind was already ahead — mapping out the flow of practice.
---
Warm-up & Drills
The whistle blew.
Players began sprinting across the field, their cleats digging into the grass with rhythmic precision. The sound of running feet, controlled breathing, and the soft thuds of footballs filled the air.
Haruto ran alongside Ryo Kameda, the energetic winger, who grinned mid-sprint. "Come on, Kisaragi, don't slack off today!"
"Not slacking," Haruto replied evenly, dodging a cone and accelerating just slightly ahead of him.
Ryo chuckled between breaths. "Show-off…"
The next drill was cone dribbling. Rows of orange cones stood like sentinels, waiting to test precision and control. The team lined up. One by one, players took turns weaving through them, controlling the ball tightly with each step.
When it was Haruto's turn, his entire demeanor shifted. His lazy posture straightened, his eyes sharpened, and the soft sound of the ball meeting his shoe was near perfect — tap, tap, tap, fluid and deliberate. He moved swiftly but never rushed, his movements smooth, minimal, efficient. The coach's whistle cut through the air.
"Perfect form, Kisaragi! Keep that up."
Haruto didn't smile. Praise was fuel — nothing more.
---
Passing Rotation
The second drill began. Players formed a circle, quick one-touch passes ricocheting back and forth like rapid gunfire. The rhythm was everything.
"Focus on your timing!" Coach Okabe shouted.
Haruto trapped the ball with the inside of his foot, flicked it to Ryo, who returned it instantly. Haruto pivoted, sending a clean pass across to Shigeru Nakamoto, who barely managed to control it. The ball skipped away slightly, and Haruto's eyes flickered.
He had seen it before it happened — the tiny shift in Shigeru's stance, the mistimed foot placement. His brain had calculated the miss before it even occurred.
He spoke quietly, voice calm but clear: "You're leaning too far forward before the touch. Keep your center low."
Shigeru blinked, nodded quickly. "Right… thanks."
Even the coach noticed. Okabe crossed his arms. "Kisaragi, that's the awareness I want to see. You've got the instincts — don't waste them."
Haruto simply nodded again, brushing sweat from his brow.
---
Formation Scrimmage
By the time scrimmage began, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field. The golden light made every motion feel cinematic — the swing of a leg, the leap of a save, the crunch of cleats in dirt.
Teams were split: blue vests versus white vests. Haruto wore white, the team's midfielder and silent strategist.
"Let's keep the pressure high," Daichi Tanabe, the team captain, called out, adjusting his blue vest. "And don't let Kisaragi get space!"
Haruto smirked faintly. Let's see if you can stop me then.
The whistle blew.
The ball rolled toward Haruto. In one motion, he stepped forward, tapping it lightly with the inside of his foot, drawing a defender in. He feinted left, then slid the ball right, gliding past two players with effortless precision. His steps were soundless, calculated — every motion an answer to the defense's question.
"Get him!" Ryo shouted from the other side, chasing him down.
Haruto didn't even look up. He knew exactly where everyone was. His mind painted the field like a map — eleven dots in motion, each trajectory predicted, each potential move already simulated.
With one swift pass, he sent the ball curving toward Shigeru near the box. The pass split the defense in perfect timing. Shigeru struck — the ball rebounded off the post. Gasps echoed.
Without hesitation, Haruto sprinted in, catching the rebound midair and volleying it with his left foot. The shot hit the net, thwack!
Coach Okabe's whistle shrieked.
"Beautiful follow-up! That's the kind of awareness that wins games!"
Haruto exhaled slowly, his pulse steady. Around him, his teammates cheered, some patting him on the back.
"Damn, Kisaragi," Daichi muttered, shaking his head. "You really don't miss an opening, do you?"
Haruto's lips curved into a faint smirk. "I just don't waste them."
---
Cool Down
As the scrimmage ended, players collapsed onto the grass, laughing and panting. The smell of turf mixed with sweat and evening air. The orange sky bled into soft purples, the field lights flickering on one by one.
Haruto sat quietly, pulling off his cleats. His socks were damp with sweat, blades of grass sticking to his skin. He stretched his legs slowly, staring up at the dimming sky.
He could hear his teammates chatting — Ryo joking about dinner, Daichi boasting about next week's match. But Haruto's mind drifted elsewhere. His Predator sense wasn't just about the game anymore. It was like a hum at the edge of his consciousness, a faint energy building, whispering that something greater was approaching.
For now, though, he allowed himself a rare, quiet smile.
Tomorrow would be another step forward.
Another calculation.
Another evolution.
Another move toward the Apex.